


Just Foes Bein' Bros

by maxtothemax



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxtothemax/pseuds/maxtothemax
Summary: This is a prose version of Mercutio's death scene, written from Tybalt's (gay) perspective. This is an assignment I got in my freshman year of high school; I submitted it for a grade and got an A. I also submitted it to the school literary magazine, where it was published (several months after I dropped out of school). I will post this work exactly how it was when I submitted it for a grade (keep in mind, this means I have MLA line citations for the direct quotes). Enjoy!





	Just Foes Bein' Bros

Mercutio met Tybalt’s eyes with a mischievous grin, hand teasingly hovering around the hilt of his weapon. “Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out” (III, i, 81-83).  
Tybalt felt cheeks flush red as he drew his sword, trying to match Mercutio’s smile. “I am for you,” he said (III, i, 84), staring his opponent down. He swallowed down his embarrassment at the sentence that just came from his mouth. He may have been able to come up with something wittier, if not for that charming--infuriating--smile.  
Tybalt kept light on his feet as metal clashed against metal, the yells of their spectators echoing in his ears. All he was focused on was Mercutio’s face, and he tried to convince himself it was so that he could predict the man’s next move. He had to admit, Mercutio had skill, and even the energy to shout biting insults every once in awhile to entertain the crowd. He might make for a fine actor, Tybalt thought, jabbing his saber towards Mercutio’s midsection.  
Meanwhile, the Montagues, Benvolio and the cursed Romeo, were the only ones shouting in protest, something along the lines of “put thy rapier up.” Tybalt wasn’t listening, too intently focused on the battle and trying to mirror Mercutio’s playful demeanor to pay them any mind. For someone associated with the Montagues, he wasn’t all around a terrible fellow…  
Tybalt felt someone grab him around the waist, and looked aside to see that it was Romeo. More annoyed than anything, he tried to squirm from the Montague boy’s grasp, while still continuing to fight with Mercutio. With a jerk of his body he sent Romeo sprawling, his sword arm thrusting forward--right into good Mercutio’s chest.  
Time froze as Mercutio looked up at Tybalt’s face, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, as though trying to form a witty retort to the stabbing. Tybalt shook his head ever so slightly, eyes wide, trying to convey his message: I didn’t mean to, it was all Romeo’s doing. But he felt the crowd about to converge--the moment had dragged too long. Tybalt pulled his sword from Mercutio’s chest, sheathed it, and fled.  
He didn’t pay attention to the Capulet followers in his wake; he could only feel the blood draining from his face just as the life was surely draining from Mercutio. He had killed a good man--a handsome, witty man. If it weren’t for cursed Romeo, Mercutio wouldn’t have been stabbed; Tybalt would not be a murderer…  
Tybalt’s head whipped back around in the direction of square, eyes only seeing red. Romeo. Rushing through the crowd of his followers, he charged back into the open space--only to catch himself halfway through. He couldn’t look so upset, he reasoned; this was practically a Montague death. Though he was sure that he was pale as a ghost, Tybalt sauntered up to the crowd and met eyes with the furious Romeo. He drew his sword with a steady hand. No regrets; this time, he would kill with intention. He would kill the man who had caused him to murder a man who, under different circumstances, he might have become better acquainted with. Tybalt steeled himself against the familiar clash of the swords. No regrets.


End file.
